‘Just tell me where I must go to find Abu Tarek,’ Girling whispered. ‘That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?’
‘If you found him, would you avenge Mona, or would you use him to find your friend?’
‘Both, Mohammed Hamdi.’
‘You cannot have it both ways, Tom Girling.’ The ex-policeman rested against the wall. Girling offered him a seat, but he refused. ‘Yes, Abu Tarek killed Mona, but even if you were lucky enough to find him in this vast city, it would not do you any good. You told me you wanted to find this man Stansell and that the only way you knew how was to penetrate the Brotherhood. Abu Tarek is a small fish, a common criminal who obeys orders. He will not know who holds Stansell, but his protector might.’
‘What protector?’
‘They call him the Guide.’
‘The name makes him sound important, yet I have never heard of him.’
‘He is one of the most powerful men in Egypt, yet scarcely anyone knows of him,’ Mohammed Hamdi wheezed.
‘I don’t understand.’
‘To understand, you have to go back to Asyut, on the day Mona died. Are you strong enough to do that?’
Girling felt his skin prickle. He had returned there every day since. ‘Yes,’ he said.
Mohammed Hamdi stubbed out his cigarette and promptly lit another. ‘Asyut is a big city. Its university has many students, the vast majority of them from poor families in Upper Egypt, where I was born. It has long been a trouble-spot, a breeding ground for fundamentalism. What happened there three years ago was more than just a riot. It was an uprising, a revolution, an attempt to overthrow the government of this country. And the Guide was the spark who made it happen. He began a campaign against the government through his mullahs, the local priests. Every day they preached to the students about the government’s corruption, how it had given itself to the West. The tension rose, until one day, there was an incident with the police, and the town exploded in violence. You and Mona arrived there when the trouble was at its height. Remember, the Guide’s mullahs had called for the death of the faithless, the eradication of all profanity; and so it was that his followers turned their hatred on you. Abu Tarek was one of the Guide’s right-hand men, like a military adviser, if you can believe such a thing. He was the instrument of Mona’s death, her murderer. But in many ways, the Guide is more guilty of her death.’
Girling’s eyes widened. ‘What happened to him, this Guide?’
‘The troops who moved into the city, and rescued you, managed to capture him. He was brought here to Cairo in the strictest secrecy. But they did not dare try him for Asyut, for his punishment certainly would have been the death penalty. And the last thing the authorities wanted was a martyr and another uprising. So they pretended Asyut never happened and the Guide was sent into exile.’
‘It was a bad day for Egypt when the ‘Askary lost you as a detective, Mohammed Hamdi.’
‘Thank you.’
‘But if the Guide’s living abroad, how could he know about Stansell? Stansell is somewhere in this city still, I’m convinced of it.’
Mohammed Hamdi gave a smile of satisfaction. ‘Whoever said anything about foreign exile, Tom Girling? This was the government’s — or should I say the Mukhabarat’s — master-stroke. In exchange for the Guide’s complicity, his promise to behave, they have let him live out his days here in Cairo. He is a prisoner, certainly, but it is a golden cage that holds him. The Brotherhood knows where he is and the Mukhabarat knows the Guide is in regular touch with them. But as long as there is no trouble, the Guide stays out of prison. He is, in effect, their puppet, but in a sense, they are his puppets, too. For, it is his word — or rather, his henchmen — that keeps order in the streets.’
‘Where do they hold this Guide?’
‘In the Al-Mu’ayyad Mosque. To get there you must go down Al-Mu’izz Street, almost to the point where the old quarter meets the City of the Dead.’
‘The City of the Dead?’
‘Yes, it is close. Is that significant?’
‘Maybe, maybe not. How do I get into this mosque?’
‘Anyone can get in. There are two guards on the door to ensure the Guide does not leave, but there is little danger of that. He does not want to leave. He has the government by the neck just where he is.’
‘How will I know him?’ Girling asked.
‘He holds prayers every day. In the morning. At nine o’clock. To the people, he is a great and skilful orator. Yet only a handful know of his true power.’
Mohammed Hamdi turned for the door, then stopped. ‘I should warn you that if you go to this man, it would be most unwise to tell him who you are, or the secret you harbour. I cannot say I like you, Tom Girling, but-’
‘Say it, Mohammed Hamdi.’
‘If you mention Mona, or Abu Tarek, a man who enjoys this man’s protection… Little Alia is a beautiful child. She has already lost her mother. Stay alive long enough to kiss her goodbye from me, Tom Girling.’
CHAPTER 13
The Sikorsky thundered through the wadi at over a hundred and sixty miles per hour, barely thirty feet above the ground, a fearsome fusion of sight and sound; an enormous squat insect with seven thousand pounds of shaft horsepower propelling it through the air.
The pilot’s gaze did not flicker from the TV dis-play’s green and black FLIR image just above his knees. At this height, glancing up from the screen was an invitation to fly the helicopter into the ground or the valley walls.
Outside, it was as close to absolute darkness as the desert allowed. Major Bart Bookerman’s lifeline was the FLIR camera in the nose of the helicopter. He had vocal assistance from his crew, whose NVGs — mini-binoculars hinged down over the helmet — picked up on any ambient light, magnifying it thousands of times to turn night into day. Apart from the co-pilot, Karanski, all of the crew wore NGVs. While the FLIR acted as Bookerman’s eyes ahead, his scanners and their NVGs were his peripheral vision. If he started drifting a little too close to the wadi cliffs, they were there to direct him back on course.
Bookerman loved the MH-53J. Although a big helicopter, it flew like a scout bird. The men liked it, too, because it could get them in and out of bandit country fast and because its three miniguns packed more than enough punch to keep them out of trouble. Thanks to its extensive armour protection, there were very few things which could bring down an MH-53J. A shoulder-launched heat-seeking missile was one of them; a fast, air-to-air armed helicopter was another. Bookerman had been taught every tactic for throwing off fighter helicopters and his ESM/ECM suite was more than capable of jamming or spoofing surface-to-air missiles.
So much for the theory.
In the end, their survival boiled down to his ability as a pilot. Right now, he felt sharp, alive. Without the boss peering over his shoulder, his confidence soared. Ulm had assigned himself to Bookerman’s ship for the duration, but in his absence, it was just him and his regular crew, Master Sergeant Alejandro Salva, minigunner and scanner, Staff Sergeant Byron Sweet, second gunner/scanner, and their regular flight engineer, Master Sergeant John Leiffer. Depending on where he was needed most, Leiffer hopped from his jump-seat between the pilot and co-pilot to the ramp at the back of the helicopter, where he stuck his head into the slipstream, scouting for obstructions.